


When I get hold of the big bad wolf

by dapatty, kellifer_fic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Collaboration, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 45-60 Minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-07-09 17:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19891285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapatty/pseuds/dapatty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellifer_fic/pseuds/kellifer_fic
Summary: When Scott calls to tell Derek there’s something in the Preserve, at the school, destroying the mall or any number of other places, his first question shouldn’t have to be but always is, “Where’s Stiles?”OrDerek makes Stiles soup.





	When I get hold of the big bad wolf

Cover Art by dapatty.

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## Streaming Audio

## Downloads

  * [MP3](http://dapatty.parakaproductions.com/2019/When%20I%20Get%20Hold%20of%20the%20Big%20Bad%20Wolf.mp3) | **Size:** 20 MB | **Duration:** 00:47:30
  * [Mobile Streaming Click Here](http://dapatty.parakaproductions.com/2019/When%20I%20Get%20Hold%20of%20the%20Big%20Bad%20Wolf.mp3)

  
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When I get hold of the big bad wolf  
I just push him under to drown  
Then I bite him in a million bits  
And I gobble him right down!  
When they're inside me where it's dark  
I walk around like Noah's Ark  
I stuff my tummy like a goop  
With animal crackers in my soup!

\- Animal Crackers in My Soup  
Shirley Temple

_Broke-Ass Gas Station Soup_

_Ingredients:_  
_Ketchup packets_  
_Coffee creamer_  
_Red Pepper Flakes_  
_Hot Water_

_Serving Suggestion: One Stiles who has the self-preservation instincts of a mung bean. Scratch that. It’s insulting to mung beans._

When Scott calls to tell Derek there’s something in the Preserve, at the school, destroying the mall or any number of other places, his first question shouldn’t have to be but always is, “Where’s Stiles?”

Scott’s response is always a variation of, “Uh-“which is Scott deciding how badly he wants to avoid ratting out his best friend versus how much danger Stiles is in at the time. The length of pause and the level of consciousness Stiles is in once Scott admits nine times out of every ten that Stiles is _in the middle of it_ tells Derek how quickly he needs to haul ass and get there.

This time the pause was a worrying two seconds flat and the level of consciousness was, “I’m not sure,” so Derek didn’t even both with the stairs at his apartment, just jumped out his window and hoped no one was around to see him take the three stories with only a mild grunt.

Derek spares a few minutes to swing into the gas station for supplies, before he’s heading for the Preserve. He doesn’t even need directions because he knows _exactly_ where Stiles and Scott are, mostly because it’s the exact same place he told them and the betas to stay away from only the day before. 

His mistake was not telling them _why_ , which obviously peaked Stiles’ insatiable and probably eventually fatal curiosity. Derek’s only consolation is that if he’d told Stiles what was there, he would probably have had to make this trip sooner.

As Derek approaches, he sees Scott thankfully _outside_ of the faerie ring but he can’t see Stiles and that’s worrying. Scott grimaces and points up and it would be funny if it wasn’t so serious. Stiles is hanging upside down high up in the trees, face red with being inverted and big, Bambi eyes wide.

“Thank god!” Stiles enthuses. “I swear, if you don’t get me down from here soon, my head’s going to pop like an overstuffed tic it’s so full of blood.”

“You didn’t try to take him back by force, did you?” Derek asks Scott, ignoring Stiles for now. He needs to know if the very fragile truce between the werewolves and the fairies has been completely trashed or is somewhat salvageable.

“No, I called you first. I figured if they wanted us dead, we would be already.”

Derek nods and pats Scott’s shoulder. The time to get angry is much, much later. Right now, he needs to keep a cool head.

“Uh, hello? As much fun as it is to be doing an awesome impression of a tarot card-“

“Stiles, another word out of you and I’m telling them they can keep you,” Derek grits through his teeth and is surprised when Stiles does fall quiet. He looks up to make sure Stiles hasn’t just passed out and sees a small shape hovering in front of Stiles’ face, holding a very sharp stick at Stiles’ eye level. Derek’s thankful Stiles’ instincts were correct for once and he froze instead of swatting at the thing.

“I’ve come to claim my pack member,” Derek raises his voice to say, keeping an eye on Stiles and the little flitting thing in front of his face. Derek sees Stiles’ hands which are dangling below him twitch a little but then go still and he breathes out the air he didn’t even realize he was holding onto.

“You know the rules, Hale,” a voice says right at this shoulder and Derek fights the urge to turn around. He reaches out and grips Scott by the back of the head to stop him looking either. Neither of them wants to see the owner of that voice.

“He didn’t know, Pistachio,” he says and sees out of the corner of his eye Scott mouth, “Pistachio?”

“Ignorance of the law is not a defense,” Pistachio tutts and Derek feels more than sees her move. He swivels to keep her out of his sight-line and tugs Scott around too.

“He belongs to my pack. He’s not his own to give himself away,” Derek says, knowing it’s a stretch but hoping Pistachio is enough of a stickler of the old ways to buy it.

“He ate of our food. He’s ours,” Pistachio says, but she sounds uncertain. Derek sighs, takes a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose with the hand he doesn’t have on Scott.

“I thought that part was a myth,” Stiles says from above them and Derek grimaces because he can feel Pistachio’s mood shift to one of triumph.

“See? He admits he knew of the law!”

“You _really_ don’t want him,” Derek says.

“Well, not all of him, no. Just the soft parts,” Pistachio says with a grin in her voice.

“I think you want peace with us more,” Derek warns. “I know you think you’re tough, but I seem to remember you guys not doing so well when we rip off your wings and bite through your spines.”

“Gross,” both Scott and Stiles opine.

There’s a beat of silence and then a sly, “Are you willing to trade him for a favor?”

“I’m willing to trade our protection for him.”

“We do not need your protection,” Pistachio scoffs.

“Not even from the Goblin hoard that’s set up camp on the other side of the Preserve?” Derek asks and hears a frantic rustling from above, many tiny voices whispering in concern. Pistachio hisses and they fall silent.

“You lie. There are no Goblins.”

“They’ve been here for about a week now. Only a matter of time before they stop eating rabbits and start looking for more interesting prey.”

Pistachio makes a pained noise of almost perfect teenage frustration and then says, “Fine! You will need to provide for him before he leaves us.”

“Got it covered,” Derek says, picking up the plastic bag by his feet and rustling it.

He’s set up the MRE disposable stove he’d brought with him and is adding ingredients to the pot when Stiles is set ungracefully in a heap by his side.

Despite his protests, Scott had been sent back to the car to wait for them.

“What are you making?” Stiles asks, scrunching his face up. Derek shouldn’t be surprised that he hasn’t thanked him for saving his eyeballs and keeping them safely inside his head where they belong.

“You can’t leave the fairy ring when the last thing you ate was given to you by a fae. I need to make something for you as your provider.” Stiles snorts at that and then leans closer to look and Derek wonders when it stopped being weird for Stiles to feel entitled to encroach on his personal space. Stiles places a hand on Derek’s shoulder so he can see Derek dumping ketchup packets, chili flakes and creamer into the water now it’s started to boil.

“Dude, _no_ ,” Stiles says, shaking his head vehemently.

“I didn’t have a lot of time and nothing else was open at this late. You’re going to eat this and you’re not going to say a word about it,” Derek says and feels a little bit of vindictive glee at the face Stiles pulls when Derek uses a stick from the ground to stir the soup.

“You don’t have a granola bar on you or something?”

“You need to imbibe something I’ve _made_ , Stiles. It needs to be food made by someone who-“Stiles raises his eyebrows, possibly interested in how Derek’s planning to finish that sentence and honestly? Derek’s pretty interested himself.

He knows he’s lost boundaries, sleep and the will to live sometimes because of Stiles, but he’s not sure what that means, exactly. He… _cares_ , more than he should. Probably more than is healthy for either of them and enough that Scott has started giving him the furtive stink eye. Right now, though, he needs to get that far too perceptive look off Stiles’ face and worry about the rest of it when they’re not still in a lot of danger.

“Someone who’s the boss of you,” Derek says, knowing exactly the reaction he’s going to get.

“Okay, first, I’m not going to drink whatever the hell it is you’re making because it looks like it’s going to give me Scarlet Fever, Botulism and possibly cooties. Second, you are _not_ the boss of me. You’re not even the boss of our pack because Scott’s an alpha too. At best you’re Co-Boss of me.”

“Do you want to have this argument right _now_? Eat this or we’re going to see if you survive a hundred tiny creatures with bone needles for teeth fighting over who gets to chew on your liver first.” Derek glares at Stiles until he lowers to his haunches and accepts the bowl Derek’s holding out for him. “Drink your Botulism, it’s better than the alternative.”

Derek thinks he must be crazy to find Stiles’ aggrieved eye roll and huffed, “Fi-i-ine,” adorable.

*

_Canned Double Noodle Soup_

_Ingredients: Read the can if you want to know. Added extra leftover chicken for protein._

_Serving Suggestion: One Stiles with extra goop_

Derek’s seen Stiles near death, but he’s never looked this _bad_ before.

“I’m not really up to… um… research… uh…” Stiles is hanging onto his front door, looking like death barely warmed over and squinting at Derek as he trails off, obviously forgetting what he was saying halfway through.

“I’m not here for that,” Derek says gruffly, levering Stiles’ grip off the door gently and putting the hand he’d been holding himself upright with on his arm. “Why are you out of bed?”

“You rang the doorbell,” Stiles says, looking at his hand in the crook of Derek’s elbow and back at the door, glancing between them a few times like he’s not sure how that happened. “You don’t usually ring the doorbell.”

“I just… I’m trying a new thing… for me,” Derek says haltingly, cursing himself inwardly all the while. He’d thought the Sheriff was home, the cruiser was in the driveway after all. Derek was planning to drop what he’d brought and go, knowing he was going to get some very judgemental eyebrows from Stiles’ dad but he was willing to risk it so he didn’t get a repeat of the _look_ when the Sheriff had found Derek in his son’s room without passing through the front door first last week.

“Still worried about my dad, huh?” Stiles says, observant still despite everything. He’s sagging on his feet and Derek gets a shoulder under his arm and shuffles Stiles into the living room where there’s already the remnants of an obvious nest; wadded tissues on the floor next to an overflowing wastebasket, pile of blankets on the couch and the cast-off hoodie Stiles always wears when he’s feeling less than his best, be it mad, sad or apparently, sick.

“He would know how to hide the body,” Derek muses and Stiles makes a sound of agreement before squawking when Derek unceremoniously dumps him back into his blanket pile. “You look worse than yesterday.”

Stiles had come to the pack movie night they’d had the night before and had snuffled and sneezed his way through the movie Overboard; _classic version_ because to Stiles the remake was a _travesty_ , before excusing himself early. Derek had watched him leave with worried eyes, somber mood only broken when Erica had patted him on the cheek and cooed at him for being concerned.

“Humans get worse when they’re sick sometimes, not all of us have magical wolf-y healing,” Stiles says, mostly into a tissue and there’s the loud honk of him blowing his nose to punctuate his statement. He halfheartedly tosses his tissue towards the trash and it bounces off the very full top and joins the other discards on the floor.

“I know that,” Derek grumbles. “ _You_ were the one that said you were getting better.”

“Thought I was,” Stiles says and then waves down at himself and makes a face. “Obviously not.” He blinks up at Derek, his face pale and with a bright red nose and Derek hates that he still finds Stiles to be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He’s so doomed.

Stiles is still blinking slowly at him when his eyes suddenly focus on Derek’s hand. “What are you holding?”

“Nothing,” Derek says, suddenly feeling deeply, deeply stupid and wondering if he can make an escape without admitting it. “I mean, not _nothing_ , but nothing for you.”

It’s the worst thing he can possibly say.

“Nu-uh! You lie! Give it!” Stiles demands, making grabby hands, a crumpled tissue caught between the fingers of his right. He grunts and shakes his hand to dislodge it and then recommences his finger spasming in Derek’s direction. “Derek Hale, is that actual, honest-to-god _Tupperware_ I see?”

“No,” Derek denies and puts it behind his back, then immediately rolls his eyes at himself and brings it out again. “I mean, yes, but, it’s silly. You don’t need this. You need a doctor.”

“Already went this morning when I had to peel my face off the pillow,” Stiles says. “It’s just a bad cold. I need rest and fluid-“ Stiles’ eyes sparkle a little, something coming to life in them that had been dulled by sickness. “-and whatever is in that Tupperware container you’re holding.”

“It’s not… it’s just soup, okay?”

“You made me soup?” Stiles asks, his eyes going impossibly rounder.

“Not really?” Derek denies. “I just dumped a can of Double Noodle into this with some leftover chicken I had. There was no _effort_ involved so please stop looking at me like that.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, hands now pressing into his chest and Derek starts getting a little worried, right up until Stiles flumps back into his blankets dramatically and announces, “You are too adorable sometimes. I can’t stand it.”

“I’m…?” Derek starts, unsure he heard Stiles correctly, but then Stiles levers himself mostly back to sitting upright and flops his arms pathetically in the direction of the kitchen.

“Can you heat up my soup?”

Derek wants to run away from Stiles, very far and very fast. Instead he lets out a gusty sigh and a very put-upon, “Sure,” and retreats to the kitchen. Once there, he takes a moment to lean his head against the nearest cabinet, the one from memory that holds an impractical number of Garfield mugs, and breathes.

“I don’t hear the microwave,” Stiles sing-songs from the living room. The obnoxiousness of it is only undercut by Stiles dissolving into a coughing fit on the last word.

When Stiles has a bowl of piping soup in front of him, instead of eating it, he just looks at Derek, who fidgets and finally says, “What?”

“I’m just trying to picture _you_ , Derek Hale, glariest of the glare-wolves and all-around cool guy, attending a _Tupperware party_.”

“I didn’t. The Tupperware isn’t mine.”

“Whose is it?” Stiles asks, finally getting around to lifting a spoonful of soup to his mouth. Derek waits for Stiles to swallow it before he shrugs and says, “Dunno.”

“You…” Stiles blinks at his second spoonful, paused on the way to his mouth, before very deliberately replacing the spoon into the bowl. “Don’t know?”

“Found it in the car,” Derek says, starting to enjoy himself for the first time that day.

“You _found_ it, in the _car_?” Stiles splutters, now putting the bowl down on the coffee table and nudging it away from himself.

“I cleaned it,” Derek defends.

“ _Please_ tell me this was Laura’s and not…” Stiles pulls a hilariously disgusted face. “ _Peter Hale Tupperware_.”

“Could’ve belonged to the guy who owned the Camaro before us.”

“What? Before you? Someone owned that car _before_ you?”

“We didn’t build it from scratch like a cabin in the woods, Stiles,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

“No, I mean, of course not but I just figured it went straight from the factory floor to you. I didn’t know there was an in-between.”

“My dad bought it for Laura as a graduation gift for a ridiculously low price from a guy who was punishing his son for getting a huge speeding fine.” Stiles’ face freezes and then the expression that crosses it is something Derek’s never seen before. “ _What_?” Derek gruffs at him, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

“No, I… you just…” Stiles flounders for a moment before he picks up the bowl again, obviously needing something to do with his hands. “I’ve never heard you talk about your dad before.”

“Oh, sorry,” Derek says, and Stiles flails a hand at him, the other with the soup bowl wobbling dangerously.

“No! Don’t be sorry! I mean, with all the stories about your mom I could pick her out of a line up blindfolded but your dad…” Stiles trails off, chewing on his lip. “I like that I know that your dad was an extravagant cheapskate.”

Derek snorts. “Yeah, well, we got used to protecting him.”

“Because he was human?” Stiles asks, eyes downcast.

“No, dummy. Because he was my mom’s second.”

Stiles looks up. “He was? I thought he was human?”

“He was,” Derek says. “He and my mom were partners. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t a wolf, to _any_ of us.”

“Did he… did he ever want to be?” Stiles asks carefully.

Derek thinks about it, then feigning a completely serious expression, answers, “Once.” When Stiles just blinks at him owlishly, Derek finishes, “When he cracked a rib getting out of bed. He was _mortified_. He told everyone he was hurt in a motorcycle accident.”

Stiles just stares at Derek for a beat before he busts out laughing. He only stops when he starts coughing again and Derek gently relieves him of the soup bowl and sets it down on the table before Stiles dumps it all over himself.

*

_Potato Leak Soup_

_Ingredients: It’s a Hale family secret._

_Serving Size: Four humans or one werewolf and one Stiles_

It surprises the hell out of Derek, not that he shows it, to open the loft door to the Sheriff standing on the other side with a box in his arms.

“Uh, hey,” Derek says and then grimaces. “How much trouble is Stiles in?”

“None?” the Sheriff says, but it sounds more like a question. When Derek raises an eyebrow at the Sheriff he huffs and shakes his head. “Well, at any one time can we ever say definitively that my son is not in some degree of trouble?”

“Very true, sir,” Derek agrees and then nods at the box. “Is there something you need me to look at?” Derek had also been surprised, although he probably shouldn’t have been, that the Sheriff had started contacting him every now and again after he’d found out about the whole werewolf thing, especially regarding tricky cold cases that didn’t make any sense and were most likely supernatural in nature once that was a possibility. Their communications were normally over text and Derek knew Stiles would be far too amused about their stilted conversations and mostly one-word back-and-forths broken up by the occasional photo. Enough that Derek and the Sheriff had both solemnly agreed to never, ever left Stiles find out.

“Oh, uh, yes, but it’s not what you think,” the Sheriff says, gesturing with the box and Derek steps aside to let him into the loft. The Sheriff gets about halfway before he stops and cocks his head and Derek sees what he’s seeing at the same moment. A pair of Stiles’ trainers are tossed casually under Derek’s coffee table, identifiable because Stiles had written his name on the right one in sharpie when he’d been bored at a pack meeting. Derek hadn’t stopped him because he’d been too distracted by the way Stiles chewed on the pen cap in between letters and when he’d been deciding between stars or circles to border his design.

“My son’s here a lot,” the Sheriff says and it isn’t a question but Derek feels compelled to say something about it anyway.

“With the others, mostly,” Derek says and that’s generally true, in a very broad sense. The reason the sneakers were there was because Stiles had left late a few nights before, yawning when he’d been searching for his shoes and Derek had ended up tossing a pair of his own trainers at Stiles when Stiles had given up with a “barefoot it is” declaration. Derek had noticed the errant sneakers the next day when he’d picked up the blanket that had been tossed over the coffee table and they’d fallen out of the jumble of it.

The Sheriff lets out a dubious, “Uhuh,” and then sets the box he’d been carrying on the same coffee table and steps away from it. “Don’t know if I ever said to you how sorry I was for what happened to your family.”

“It’s okay,” Derek replies automatically, because that’s what you say when someone offers that kind of sentiment. He’d heard those words a lot after the fire. He thinks the main reason Laura decided to drag them to New York was to get away from those words, always waiting down a grocery aisle or at the gas station or at the school, dredging the loss back up again even though the people that said them meant well, wanting you to know they were sad for you.

These days it’s a dull ache, muted with time. It still hurts a little, but the same way it hurts to press on an old bruise.

The Sheriff seems to sense the sudden awkwardness in the air because he tries, “Okay, how about I’m sorry for the nonsense my kid put you through when you were back?”

That gets a bemused snort out of Derek. The Sheriff was just chock full of curve-balls that day. “That’s _really_ okay. He’s made up for…” Derek wheels his arms a moment, not sure how to phrase it.

“Accusing you of murder?”

“In his own way,” Derek agrees and then looks at the box properly for the first time. He couldn’t see it when the Sheriff was holding it, but now he’s set it down, he can read the _Hale_ clearly written in thick marker along one of the top cardboard flaps. “Uh, sir?”

“We were cleaning out the evidence room and I found this. Something else for me to be sorry about, that this didn’t make it your way sooner.”

“What is it?” Derek asks, a little spooked. Now that he’s not distracted by the Sheriff’s presence in his home, he can smell a faint trace of smoke emanating from the box. His mouth goes dry at the same time that his hands go clammy and he wants to step away from the thing, but he can’t. He’s frozen to the spot.

“Nothing bad, I don’t think,” the Sheriff says, his voice suddenly soothing like he knows Derek’s a heartbeat from jumping out the window to get away from whatever it is that’s happening right now. “Just something that survived the fire. The box was in evidence while the department was trying to work out just what the hell happened. We know, now, but by then this had been shuffled all the way to the back corner and buried under a whole bunch of other stuff.”

“I don’t think I- “

“Do you want me to take a look-see? Check if it’s something you’d want?” the Sheriff asks and Derek finds the strength to nod slowly, because he trusts the man’s judgement. The Sheriff nods back and then leans over, leather of his gun belt creaking as he makes quick work of the old tape holding the box’s top flaps down. When he pushes them back, he reaches in and takes out what looks like a smaller, metal box. “Huh, that’s all that’s in here,” he says.

“Oh, um, can I-?” Derek gestures for the box, because he recognizes it immediately. The Sheriff hands it over without further prompting and Derek hefts the weight of it, lighter than it should be for all the memories it contains.

“I’ll leave you to it, son, unless you need me to hang around a minute?” the Sheriff says, astute as always.

“No, I’m good,” Derek says and startles a little when the Sheriff puts a hand on his shoulder. The Sheriff doesn’t take his hand away immediately, instead squeezes firmly until Derek relaxes in his grip.

Later, when Stiles barges into the loft with his usual, in his opinion, hilarious call of, “If there’s a wolf in the house say, _arooooo_!”, Derek is in the kitchen with the box open at his elbow, yellowed cards fanned out carefully on the counter.

“That wasn’t funny the first time,” Derek snaps, annoyed not at Stiles but at the frustrating afternoon he’s been having. He hears Stiles’ footsteps falter and thumps his head against the cabinet in front of him before they resume a little more slowly.

“Um, everything okay?” Stiles asks, hesitation in his voice and confusion in his scent. Derek hasn’t snapped at him in a long time, not unless Stiles had done something monumentally stupid like put himself in danger.

“Sorry, I can’t… I just can’t get this right,” Derek says, indicating the pot on the stove with a wave of his hand and the recipe cards. Stiles immediately comes around the other side of the kitchen counter and shoves into Derek’s space, warmly entitled and Derek would balk at anyone else but with Stiles he just… accepts being shunted aside but he makes sure to roll his eyes.

“What have you been _doing_?” Stiles asks, crinkling his nose and Derek grimaces because the smell of burnt leak is still in the air. He picks up the recipe card closest and hands it over and Stiles accepts it, careful like he somehow knows it’s important even without Derek telling him. He’s not sure why he’s sharing this, his instincts should be to bristle and be protective because this is as good as showing his soft, vulnerable belly but Stiles has always seemed to throw his instincts into disarray. Up is down, black is white and Stiles is a wrecking ball that manages to bring calm with his chaos.

“I tried to saute the leaks first, but they nearly caught on fire. I washed them, and I guess I didn’t drain them properly and the bacon grease was not happy about that. Now it’s runny somehow and not creamy at all and I remember… I mean, it’s _supposed_ to be creamy.”

Stiles makes a contemplative noise and snatches the spoon Derek is holding, dipping it into the pot and taking a quick taste. He then starts pulling stuff out of cupboards, only pausing to roll his sleeves up and tell Derek to chop more leaks because, “You killed these dude, seriously. They are _dead_. There’s been a funeral, a wake and everything.”

“Shut up,” Derek grumbles, but also lets Stiles order him around and he watches Stiles add cream and butter and flour and drop in some spices and the kitchen starts smelling so much like his memory that Derek feels his guts cramp with it. He followed the recipe _exactly_ so he doesn’t understand how he got it so wrong and Stiles, who barely looked at the card, is apparently getting it so right.

He’d retreated to the living room couch when the smell had become a little overwhelming so he almost startles and drops it when Stiles puts a bowl in his hands. “What-?”

Stiles is halfway to lowering himself into the chair that Lydia and Scott usually squabble over at movie nights when he pauses, eyebrows raised at Derek. “Um, it’s the soup?” he says, waggling his own bowl. Derek’s mouth waters and goes dry at the same time and he only snaps out of his paralysis when Stiles leans forward and pushes a spoon into the hand not holding his bowl. “You okay, man?”

“Yes,” Derek says, curling his soup bowl towards him and dipping his spoon in. He tells himself that it won’t taste the same, _can’t_ and that he shouldn’t be disappointed about it. It’ll be nice, probably better than that since Stiles is an oddly good cook for all his frenetic energy and low attention span. He’s busy telling himself that as he takes his first spoonful and the soup tastes _exactly_ right. Memories come flooding back of warm kitchens, kids laughing and smacked hands when they reached for the rolls just out of the oven.

“Oh my god,” Derek chokes out and Stiles blinks at him.

“What? Is it bad? It tastes alright to me, but I guess I don’t have the wolf-buds.”

“Don’t say _wolf-buds_ like it’s a thing,” Derek manages, setting his bowl down.

“Well, I figure all your senses are heightened and taste would be included, right? That’s why you’re such a wimp about spicy food.”

“I’m not a wimp, I just like flavor that doesn’t involve burning me,” Derek argues and then smacks a hand to his face. “How did you do this? You barely looked at the recipe. Why is it _perfect_?”

“Oh, uh, my mom used to make a soup really similar to this and she always said if you followed a recipe exactly it would never turn out right because it was always missing something.”

“What was it missing?” Derek asks, picking his bowl back up.

“Meh, it’s corny,” Stiles dismisses, but he’s blushing.

“Stiles-“

“Family secret.”

“Well, you’ve just looked at mine so show me yours,” Derek says, and Stiles freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth.

“What?”

“You’ve just looked at a family secret of mine. Quid pro quo.”

“What family secret?” Stiles asks, eyes going wide.

“Your dad came over with an old evidence box, turned out to be a lock-box from my old house. It had my grandmother’s recipe cards in it. You just made a Hale family recipe.”

“I… did? Derek, why didn’t you _tell_ me that? I wouldn’t have- “

“It’s fine,” Derek soothes, worried about the way Stiles’ color has gone hectic. “You did a much better job than I could.”

“It was special though and I just barged in and took over.”

“I’m glad you did,” Derek reassures, and he should be more surprised that it’s true. “Like you said, all I was doing was murdering poor, innocent leaks.”

“Still, maybe warn a guy next time.”

“Next time? You think you’re going to get your grubby mitts on my grandmother’s secret recipes again?” Derek asks deadpan, but then quickly says when Stiles pales, “I’m kidding, Stiles, Jesus! Stop looking like that.”

After a minute of Stiles just staring at Derek, looking rightfully betrayed, they both start eating again. The soup has cooled a little, but it’s still delicious and warming, like slipping into a bath after a long day. Derek unashamedly drains his bowl by tipping it up and drinking from it when he’s down to the last few dregs.

He and Stiles both head for the kitchen at the same time, Derek taking the bowls to rinse in the sink while Stiles goes back to the recipe cards and organizes them with gentle hands, taking a moment to wipe his hands off on his jeans before he touches them which makes Derek smile.

“So, you gonna tell me what I was missing?” Derek asks, nudging Stiles with an elbow between his shoulder blades when he’s done, and Stiles is setting the box aside, cards now safely back inside.

“Love,” Stiles says, cheeks burning a bright, lovely red. “My mom always said recipes were missing the love.”

*

_Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches_

_Ingredients:_

_One dubious-looking packet of tomato soup at the back of Derek’s cupboard – the Best Before is just a suggestion, right?_  
_Thick-cut white bread_  
_Cheese_

Serving Suggestion: One sourwolf who’s maybe just a little bit sweet but also slightly dented

“How long did Deaton say this would last?” Derek asks, groaning as Stiles lowers him carefully onto his couch. He’s holding his side but pain still radiates outwards from his bruised ribs before he can settle properly and he bites down on a curse.

“No longer than twenty-four hours,” Stiles says, a smile in his voice.

“Are you _enjoying_ this?” Derek accuses, irked. He knows Stiles can have a mean streak if he’s pushed but it surprises him that Stiles seems to be having a good ol’ time with what’s happening.

“Can you blame me?” Stiles asks, his careful hands when he lets go of Derek somewhat betraying his glee at Derek’s discomfort.

“Yes! Very easily. The spell was meant for you,” Derek points out and Stiles shrugs.

“Fair.” He drums his fingers on his chin for a second. “What do you think it would have done to me if it _had_ hit me? I mean for you it’s just mildly inconvenient but for me-?”

“ _Mildly_ inconvenient?”

“So you don’t heal straight away for a whole _day_. Big whoop. Welcome to my life, buddy.”

“I would find it only _mildly_ inconvenient if I didn’t bust a couple of ribs saving your ass first.”

“I’m glad you were hurt first,” Stiles says, moving off to the kitchen and starting to bang around in the cupboards.

“You _what_?”

Stiles pops his head out from a cupboard and rolls his eyes. “I didn’t mean I’m glad you were hurt, just that you happened to be hurt before the spell. If you’d been whole and Hale-some-“

“Please stop inventing words,” Derek interrupts.

“-when the spell had hit you, it might’ve been worse _after_. I mean, you’re not careful with yourself because you’ve never had to be.”

“I’m careful,” Derek grumbles, schooching down a little in the couch and hissing because he’d forgotten about his ribs for a nanosecond.

“Says the guy who jumps out the window of a three-story building when the elevator is busted,” Stiles scoffs.

“What are you doing?” Derek demands instead of dignifying that with a response because he’s facing away from the kitchen, Stiles is banging around in an intriguing way and it’s too much effort to get up and turn around because he can’t twist his body enough right at the moment.

“Making you soup and grilled cheese. It’s what I always had when I was sick.”

“I’m not sick,” Derek says, frowning down at himself.

“Sick, hurt, yada,” Stiles says and Derek just knows he’s waving his arms dismissively. “What did your mom make you when you were sick as a kid?”

Derek startles a little but then relaxes because he’s surprised to find that it’s _nice_ that someone is asking about his past in such an offhand, normal way. He’s used to people walking on eggshells around him whenever the topic of his family comes up and for Stiles to just breeze through the question like Derek is a real person that can be asked these types of things and not a taped together pile of tragedy is…

It’s _good_.

The clattering pauses and Derek’s worried that Stiles thinks he’s overstepped after all so he aims for a similar amount of breeziness in his voice when he says, “Werewolf, remember? I didn’t get sick as a kid.”

“Never? Not even like a wolf flu? Wolf pox? There wasn’t a moon measles?”

“None of those things are real,” Derek says. “What have you been reading?”

“You do not want to know the Tumblr holes I go down, buddy,” Stiles says and the clattering recommences, along with the _tak tak tak_ noise of Stiles lighting one of the gas burners on Derek’s stove.

“The human kids did,” Derek says and when Stiles makes an inquiring noise, he continues, “Got sick, I mean. The human kids got sick and they got to stay home from school. I was kind of jealous of that, sometimes. I never got to stay home from school. It would have been nice to stay in bed in my pajamas and watch cartoons all day, even once.”

“While feeling rotten? Not as much fun as you think.”

“I tried to fake being sick once, when I was ten. I just wanted to be… like that. Have my mom take my temperature and make me toast and fuss over me.”

“How’d the faking work out for you?” Stiles asks.

“My mom played along for a whole five minutes, took my temperature and everything. When she left the room, I put the thermometer she’d put in my mouth against the light bulb in my lamp.”

“Ah yes, the old fake-fever trick. So hard to get right,” Stiles muses. “I’m assuming she didn’t buy it?”

“She dragged me out of bed and put the lamp under the covers in my place, said it must have been feeling _terrible_.”

Stiles snorts out a laugh, the sound closer than Derek was expecting and he winces when he moves. Stiles settles on the coffee table in front of him with a bowl and plate being held precariously with one hand and a small medicine cup gripped in the other. He sets the plate and bowl aside and offers the small cup.

“What’s this?” Derek asks, suspicious.

“It’s a pain killer.”

“I might not have to take them normally, but I know what they look like. They’re usually tablets. Why is this a liquid?”

Stiles scrunches his face up and then sighs. “It’s children’s Tylenol.”

“Stiles! I’m not a kid.”

“You’ve never taken _any_ drugs before. You probably have zero tolerance. Let’s see how you go with this and if you’re not completely loopy in an hour I’ll give you the big boy drugs.”

“You are having way too much fun with this,” Derek complains, but takes the pain killer. “Ugh, Cherry, gross.”

“Didn’t you just tell me you were an adult?” Stiles says and laughs when Derek pokes his tongue out at him. He relieves Derek of the small cup and replaces it with the bowl of soup and a spoon. “This will taste much better, I promise.”

“Where did you find soup, anyway?”

“The back of your cupboard,” Stiles says.

“I don’t remember buying tomato soup. I’m pretty sure this is expired.”

“Well, by the time you get food poisoning you’ll probably be back to magical healing so it’ll all be fine,” Stiles says and Derek would smack him if he had a hand free. He sets the soup aside and picks up a piece of toast instead which would appear to be the much safer option. Stiles hasn’t moved away though and Derek pauses eating and raises an eyebrow at him.

“What?”

“You just… put yourself in front of me. With the witch. You didn’t know what her spell was going to do but you put yourself in front of me. You _always_ put yourself in front of me.”

“That’s what an alpha does,” Derek says. “Protects their pack.”

“The weak members, you mean?” Stiles says, looking down at his hands. Even though his ribs twinge with the movement, Derek ignores it for long enough to reach forward and tip Stiles’ head back up with his fingers.

“Have I ever given you the impression that I think you’re weak? That you can’t handle something?”

“You don’t jump in front of Boyd or Scott or even Erica.”

“You know if Erica ever heard you say _even Erica_ , she’d eat your head, right?”

“I mean _even Erica_ because she’s the toughest one.”

Derek snorts. “True. You’re tough too, in your own way.”

“Ugh, don’t do that,” Stiles says and moves to stand up but Derek grabs a handful of his t-shirt and holds him in place. Stiles just huffs and puts his butt back on the coffee table. “You don’t need to give me a participation trophy.”

“That witch targeted you because she knew something the rest of our pack knows but apparently you don’t,” Derek says.

“What’s that?”

“Of all of us? _You_ are the scary one,” Derek says and lets go of Stiles’ shirt to bonk him lightly on the head. Stiles makes a disbelieving noise and Derek makes sure he’s looking in his eyes before he continues, so Stiles knows how serious he is. “You ever wonder why the others cluster around you whenever stuff goes down?”

“Cause I’m the squishy human,” Stiles says, mouth drawing down.

“You really think if we were worried about you we would draw attention to you in that way? If you have a weak pack member, you draw the danger away from them, you don’t make them a focal point. They cluster around you because they want _your_ protection, not to protect you. There’s magic in you, something strong and vital and the packs knows it, that _witch_ knew it.”

“I don’t believe you,” Stiles says, but he sounds unsure.

“Why do you think I have to jump in front of you so damn much? You’re our center, you’re _important_. You might not believe it but it’s true.”

“It feels like I’m mostly in the way,” Stiles says, shrugging.

“Remember that month when you were down with that flu that wouldn’t let up?”

“You trying to hit me up for tips so you can fake being sick better and get out of school?”

“Stiles, I’m trying to tell you something here. Would you listen rather than thinking up the next clever thing you’re going to say?”

“Harsh, but fair,” Stiles snorts.

“When you were out for that long, your dad insisted we leave you alone to get better-“

“Is that why you guys didn’t visit me? I thought it was because I was too gross.”

“They tried,” Derek says. “ _I_ tried. Your dad was having none of it, said something I really remember because up until that point I didn’t realize it was such a problem. _Can’t you guys do without him for five damn minutes_.” Stiles is watching Derek carefully, probably looking for the lie in his words but at the same time, so very obviously wanting them to be true. “Nothing was working without you. We tried training, we tried patrolling. Hell, we tried having a movie night and no one could pick a damn movie.”

“That’s because Isaac always wants to watch horror even though those movies give him nightmares for weeks and Erica has an unhealthy obsession with the Fast and the Furious. You’ve gotta curb that crap. Scott always says he’s fine with _whatever_ but he gets pissy if you pick something he doesn’t like and Boyd genuinely _is_ fine with whatever which is why he never gets to pick. Don’t get me started on Lydia and Jackson, eesh.”

Derek just blinks and then sits back. “See? Stuff like that.”

“Stuff like what?”

“You keep a million little things like that in your head. You anchor us, anchor _me_.”

“I’m your anchor?” Stiles asks. He’s shuffled forward when Derek moved back so his legs are now being bracketed by Derek’s. He leans forward, face open and hopeful and Derek lets out a sigh.

“Stiles, if you didn’t know that by now, I don’t know what to tell you. I thought you were the observant one.”

“Shut up,” Stiles huffs and tenses to move back so Derek closes his legs, trapping him. Stiles huffs a laugh, but he’s also _blushing_ and his heart rate has picked up and… Derek finds that very interesting.

“The question is, what am I to you?” Derek asks, hoping he isn’t revealing just how desperate for Stiles’ answer he is.

“You’re my alpha,” Stiles says, ducking his face.

“I thought I was only your co-alpha.”

“Way to throw a guys words back at him,” Stiles grumbles.

“Stiles.”

“I don’t really know how to explain it.”

“Try. You can use little words,” Derek says, smiling, but he startles backwards when Stiles throws his arms up and explodes. “Everything! Okay? You’re _everything_ to me!”

“Stiles-“

“Sorry, I know you didn’t ask for that and with the whole chemo-signal thing you probably already know mostly how pathetic I am and you’ve been super nice about not making me feel like more of an idiot than I obviously am-“

Derek leans forward, grabs Stiles’ chin with his fingers so he can still his face and then kisses him, hard. He lets go and breaks away only when Stiles stops trying to talk through it.

“You’re going to regret that in three, two –“

“Ow,” Derek exhales, sitting back.

“Forgot about the ribs there, right buddy?” Stiles asks, but he’s also beaming and breathing a little hard, eyes alight and he’s so damn achingly, terrifically and terrifyingly beautiful that Derek leans forward and does it again.

Ribs be damned.

*

_Instant Soup_

__

__

_Ingredients: Various_

_Serving Suggestion: Two idiots who took too long to see what was in front of them_

“That’s a lot of Instant soup you have there,” Derek observes, watching Stiles pull about a dozen packs from the paper grocery bag he’s unloading. “Preparing for the apocalypse?”

“Nah, it’s just pretty easy to prepare, it’s kinda our thing now and you don’t need to put on pants to cook it.” Stiles shudders and Derek tries to hold onto the laugh that threatens just picturing Stiles the day before, dancing around the loft, naked and howling about _ham lava_ after he’d been splattered by bacon grease.

“You sir, are a genius,” Derek says and Stiles beams at him.

“Can I get that in writing for next time you want to call me a dumbass?”

“You’re a genius in a very limited capacity, definitely not when it comes to life and death decisions.”

“I’d say saving myself from wiener burns is a life and death situation.”

“That’s…” Derek rubs a hand down his face. “Remind me again why I like you so much?”

“I make you food, we’re now an unstoppable Monopoly team and you think I’m cuuuuuuuute,” Stiles says, ticking off the points on his fingers and dragging the last work out to a ridiculous degree.

“You’re right,” Derek says and adds when Stiles smiles at him again, “You do make me food.”

“Remind me why I like you again?” Stiles says but before Derek can say anything, Stiles’ eyes bounce down to Derek’s bare chest and back up again. “Never mind, it’s coming back to me.”


End file.
